After Sherlock
by Hedgehogwithdrawl
Summary: Life after Sherlock's fall seen through John's eyes. Angsty. Implied johnlock.


After Sherlock…you know, left, the limp came back. First it was just a cane, then crutches, then to a chair, a rusted up hunk of metal that I hadn't used since the war. My therapist says I have PTSD. How redundant.

She quit last week. And I fired her, I guess it was both. She said I needed to stop romanticizing a criminal. I said she needs shut the fuck up about things she doesn't understand.

Harsh, I know, but I honestly just don't care anymore. I cared with Sherlock. I cared when we were at 221B. When Sherlock would sit with tweezers in one hand and some poor man's foot in the other. Those days feel so long ago. Almost impossibly long, like it happened to far off relative and all I've heard is stories.

I've hated the word 'stories' lately. People keep saying our days were just stories. They refer to my blog as if it was a novel. Some sick detective thriller in which a friend watches another leap a ledge. I can't help but know I could have done something. Maybe if I made him happier, maybe if I had the balls to tell him how I felt. But I barely knew how I felt then, it's horrible to say, but his death created a lot of clarity. Then confusion. Then anger. Then clarity again.

I was wheeling through London other day when I saw Ms. Hudson outside of a pharmacy. My new therapist had put me on another depression medication, Xandophlaxlin, even pricier than the other three combined. The horrible thing about being in a wheelchair is there is no way to hide from the unwanted visitor. You take up two feet in diameter and the funny looks alone are the equivalent to a giant neon sign flashing _'Stare at me'_. Anyways, she cornered me into coffee at Speedy's. She was so odd through out the whole thing. She kept swallowing down sentences or shoving down a scone to stifle a comment. I guessed it was the chair. Or Sherlock, but in three years of unwilling lunches we've never once talked about him. He was this ever-present elephant in the room between us. I know his death weighed on her. She had gotten scarily skinny, to the point were most of our meeting are in the hope that she will eat. She limps around like a hollowed out skeleton, and is constantly breaking and rebreaking her bones for passing out from malnourishment. The doctor in me aches to help her, but the thing about aches is that they all just melt together at one point into a big long pang that stabs at your gut when you think of almost anything. Good thing I'm paying three hundred dollars per bottle for Xandophlaxlin. What a great fucking use of money.

Though I did run into a bit of luck, money wise. I was picking up another prescription when the pharmacist handed me nine stacked bottles all taken care of. I figure Mycroft shelled out in pity, even though he thoroughly denied it when we met the following week. We still meet once a month. He claims that it's to investigate Sherlock's fall, but we haven't spoken of him in years. Contrary to Ms. Hudson, Mycroft stayed mainly the same. He wears fresh pressed suits with ties that could pay for a mortgage. His hair's still neatly combed and his umbrella still accompanies him. But it's something in his eyes that makes him vaguely different. There's a heartbroken look of him, imbedded in his skin, the look of some one who is horribly, terribly alone.

I got another letter today. For the past couple months I received unmarked letters in clean white envelopes. They were all rather encouraging _'stay strong', 'you can make it', 'just one more year'_. But this most recent one was unsettling. Printed in fine typed words was the quite frightening statement _'I'm on my way'_. Of course, I brought it down to the yard, a letter like that isn't just to be ignored, but the force had been almost useless after Lestrade quit. The fall played a number on him too. It did to everyone.

So some psycho killer must be back. I can't say I'm surprised. After the fall I was just waiting for this moment, to have one more stand off. To see his battlefield again, finally. I knelt under bead and pulled out my old gun box. It's such a sturdy piece, made to withstand the war. I showed it a new fight, and tonight it will see that fight again. I positioned my chair so I was facing the door and studied the glock in my hand as I waited for something to happen. I was far too prepared for this, to face off another maniac. I needed the feeling that I used to get when I was working with Sherlock. Like I was good. Like I was alive. I raise my gun as the doorknob jiggles. This is it, one last fight. I kill whoever he is, and he will kill me. That's the way to go, isn't it? Doing a good deed and being relived. That's how Sherlock should have done it. I miss Sherlock. I miss him every god damn day. Maybe I'll see him on the other side. Maybe then I could tell him.

The door shakes open. In a beautiful, blissful, glowing haze a tall man steps in. I put down my gun.


End file.
